


Four Times Sherlock Lost a Sense and One Time He Gained Some Sense

by Queerasil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blindness, Confession, M/M, Seeing, Senses, Sherlock gets a clue, Tasting, canon complaint, deafness, hearing, slight angst, smelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerasil/pseuds/Queerasil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smell, taste, hearing and sight were never important to Sherlock until he lost them. Nothing was more important than the one time he gained some sense. (Four stories in which Sherlock loses each of his senses briefly, and one story where he gets a clue and realizes his flatmate's feelings for him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Sherlock Lost a Sense and One Time He Gained Some Sense

Four Times Sherlock Lost a Sense and One Time He Gained Some Sense

i.

"I don't understand," Lestrade said the familiar phrase. "How can you lose your sense of smell?"

Sherlock shrugged. He bloody well knew how, but he wasn't about tell Lestrade he'd been snorting so much cocaine he'd physically impaired himself. "No idea," he lied.

Lestrade sighs, taking out a cigarette to smoke before he stops. Realizing what he's about to do, he asks, "Do ya mind?"

Sherlock does, in fact, mind. He loves the smell of cigarettes. He practically loves them as much as he loves cigarettes themselves. He lies again, because that's the 'polite' thing to do. "Go ahead."

ii.

The explosion comes out of literally nowhere.

Sherlock groans, raising his head off the carpet and looking around his devastated flat. Bits of the wall have been blown out, and the carpet and curtains will definitely need to be dry-cleaned, but otherwise, there's not much harm.

Aside from, you know, the fact he can't hear.

Sherlock stumbles up, clutching his forehead in his hands. He yells for Mrs. Hudson, and feels his mouth move, but no sound comes out. He yells again, what he's sure is louder this time. Again, no response.

Sherlock falls forward, clutching the side of his chair for support. The ground is covered in broken glass, which stabs at his feet. The carpet is covered in blood – his blood.

Not important. Have to make sure Mrs. Hudson's okay.

Sherlock walks slowly down the flat steps. He realizes he can't hear the familiar creek of the stairs, which scares him.

He yells again, and Mrs. Hudson tumbles out from under the stairs. She looks remarkably put together, considering her flat was just blown up.

He sees her lips move, but doesn't hear a thing.

Gesturing at his ears, he yells something that he hopes sounds vaguely like, 'CAN'T HEAR'.

Mrs. Hudson nods and runs up the stairs to make sure he's okay. Her lips move frantically, and Sherlock's partially glad he has no idea what she's saying. Now would be an excellent time for her to tell him her life story.

They sit downstairs in silence, waiting for the paramedics to arrive.

Mrs. Hudson keeps talking and talking and talking. Sherlock heard none of it. Eventually, he starts to panic. 'What if I never hear again? What about John's compliments, Mycroft's condescending voice, Sally's mocking retorts, Lestrade's clueless questions, Anderson's stupid remarks? I won't be able to hear music ever again – MY VIOLIN, oh no. I'll never be able to make a phone call again. Good thing I prefer to text.'

Sherlock's hearing comes back a few hours later. He doesn't even tell John he lost it.

iii.

Sherlock can't taste anything.

On one hand, it's a blessing. He can eat anything he wants now. Sour, bitter, bland, spicy, rancid; he's no longer inhibited by the most useless of the human senses. On the other hand, he'll never taste chocolate again.

If Mycroft were in this situation, he'd be inconsolable. Sherlock, in truly Sherlock-fashion, smokes a lot of cigarettes and pretends like it doesn't bother him.

He does miss the burn at the back of his throat, though. The ash as it tasted his tongue, and the sour smoke he inhaled into his lungs. He misses the pressure and flavor of a good high-tar cigarette.

Okay, maybe Sherlock is a little upset.

He can't taste coffee either. The sweet, rich holds no appeal for him anymore. That doesn't stop him from drinking his regular three-cups a day.

Tea is another matter entirely. Tea is nothing anymore. Tea has no meaning.

Sherlock sulks on the couch, until John offers a piece of friendly advice.

"You could just stop smoking so many cigarettes, you know?"

Sherlock pretends like he didn't hear him.

Coffee and tea vs. cigarettes?

It's honestly one of the hardest decisions of Sherlock's life.

A week later, Sherlock is eating a slice of chocolate cake and drinking a sweet cup of coffee. He regrets nothing.

iv.

Sherlock gets formaldehyde in his eye.

John is not pleased.

Neither is Sherlock.

John washes Sherlock's eye out with saline and cold water. He worries it may not be enough. John takes the opportunity to lecture Sherlock while the other man's head is under the running tap of 221B's kitchen sink. "You know, this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't tried to dissect a pig while walking."

Sherlock spits out a mouthful of water. Even underwater he can't shut up. "Yes, I know."

"I really don't think you do."

Sherlock flinches as his eye burns again. He's surprised one little drop of preservative can cause so much trouble. It feels like someone is drilling into his eye, and he hates it, and he just wants it to end. "John , am I going to go blind?"

John doesn't say anything. His silence is full of meaning.

Sherlock worries this may be the last time he ever sees John. He takes in his friend image, making a special place for it in his Mind Palace. An art gallery of memories of John. John smiling, John frowning, John happy. Things Sherlock may never see again.

Sherlock loses eyesight in his right eye for one week. During that time, he wears an eye patch and is referred to by everyone except Anderson as "Captain Sherlock".

Sherlock leaves the gallery up in his Mind Palace. Who knows, he might need it someday.

i.

John Watson had had enough.

"You –" He stops in the middle of his scream, staring at his flatmate with a furious look in his eye. "You bloody fucking bastard!"

"John, I know you're –"

"SHUT UP."

Sherlock is oddly quiet. He's not sure he's ever seen John so angry, and he's sure he never wants to again. "Please," he begs. "If you just let me explain."

John takes a deep breath, and for a second, Sherlock thinks he might listen. John doesn't. When he speaks, his voice is calmer. "Two-years, Sherlock. I thought you were dead, I –" John chokes back a sob.

"I'm sorry. I had no idea you would be so…" Sherlock is utterly lost for words. "I didn't think you'd care."

John stops. He bites his lip, and Sherlock can't tell what he's thinking. All of a sudden, John starts laughing. Sherlock wonders if he broke him. "You thought I didn't care about you?"

Sherlock doesn't see what's so funny about it. "No, honestly, I didn't. I didn't expect you to care." John doesn't see the hurt in Sherlock's eyes, the hidden fear that John might hate him. Sherlock hides those feelings and thoughts well.

"Sherlock…" John shakes his head and smiles. It seems as though all his anger has dissolved away. Slowly, John approaches his lost friend. "I love you."

'Oh', Sherlock realizes, just before he presses his lips to John's.

...

Eternally fun to write. Hope you enjoyed.


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